Mon Enfant Trouvé de la Mer
by maplesyrupisthicker
Summary: Matthew Williams is a fisherman on his English father's boat when he falls into the sea and wakes up in the south of France. Is he dead, or is the gorgeous man he meets more than just a dream? Franada, Human AU, some possible cameos in the future. Rated M for possible drunk shenanigans. Trigger warning for drowning.
1. Chapter 1

A storm was brewing off the rocky coast of Newfoundland. Miles from shore, the lights of a codfishing boat bobbed up and down, defiant in the chilly summer darkness. The haul that week had been poor, but the crew had a quota to fill; the _Fairy _was the last boat on the water. Matthew cursed under his breath: it was going to be a long night.

Fruitlessly, he squinted in the dark. Trying to make out his work through his foggy spectacles was simply proving too difficult. He sheathed his glasses in his trouser pocket and continued rigging the hoist. Ordinarily, the well-built but small-framed Canadian was in charge of navigation. At times like this, he would normally whip up a batch of pancakes to get the crew through a long night, but tonight was different. His father had taught him well, and he knew better than to sit back and watch the _Fairy_ flounder.

A seaman by heritage and a bookworm by nature, Matthew knew his way around a vessel. He'd worked his family's fishing boats during his summers off from college. However, after he'd graduated with a (rather useless) degree in English and floundered a bit on his own, he'd found himself in want of a proper position. Just like that, he was back to the boats until he found something better.

He frowned, remembering the day he'd agreed to sail the boats again. Matthew's dream was to write for a living and his stern English father had made no attempt to keep the I-told-you-so out of his voice when he'd offered Matthew the position of navigator. That type of thing would have never flown if Mama was still around. She would have swept him right out the door. No son of hers was going to be a quitter. Matthew sighed. He wasn't really quitting, though; was he? He was just being realistic.

Matthew staggered with the rest of the crew as an icy wave washed over the deck. The storm was getting worse. He wiped the biting salt water out of his eyes and continued the grueling work, his body present, but his mind elsewhere.

Oh, but what would he write, even if he'd had the chance? His life was, frankly, dull. He had no great talents or skills or interests. He'd never fought a moment in his life. His existence was as boring as his morning routine, and the tiny voice in his head confirmed what he'd known and ignored from the start: he was unworthy of mention, and his writing would probably be even less so.

Although, he did suppose there was that one time. That one moment when his life had glimmered like a dying sunset, only to be snuffed out by the cruel night. He recalled the scene with a grimace: standing on the splintering boards of a pier, the sea spray mixing with his tears as he stood confused and alone, abandoned by a roguish American he'd thought was 'the one'. He would never forget those words like fish hooks tearing into his skin: "Dude, no way. You thought we were…? Ah, man, gross. I was confused, ok? I've got a girlfriend. I thought you knew…" He trembled from the hurt of remembrance and exhaustion, eyes and hands burning as the rope to the left boom slid through his fingers.

Matthew had a brief moment of confusion, followed suddenly by abject terror as the slack end of the rope tightened around his ankle, pulling him with it off the side of the boat.

He hit the water with a shout, his mouth and lungs emptying from the impact and filling with cold seawater. Everything his father had taught him about survival in a situation like this was pummeled from his mind by the water as he was dragged down, breathless, gasping. He flailed and struggled like a trapped animal, kicking off his heavy boots and the rope with them. His naturally poor vision darkened, the fading, bobbing lights of the boat overhead like teasing fireflies shrinking to black nothingness. Dimly, he realized his thrashing limbs had grown still. His skin grew cold, colder, and began to feel like nothing at all. Matthew's own echoing consciousness vibrated through his skull one final time before everything in his fading reality ceased: _You really have never done anything, have you?_


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew wandered into consciousness, a traveler in the void. He couldn't see a thing. Frantically, he patted down his pockets, finding and donning his treasured spectacles. Blinking (and much calmer now that his vision was fully functional), he examined his surroundings. He was in a tunnel of some kind, seaweed and silty water pooling around his sprawled limbs. A bright light was visible in the distance. Gingerly he stood, relishing the feeling of air in his aching lungs. Was he alive? He felt alive, he supposed. At any rate, he was himself, and that was enough for now.

His clothes were soaked and his shoes were nowhere to be found. He removed his heavy overalls; it was far too warm here for anything but his comfy Canadian flannels. A layer of silt hidden by the water squelched between his toes as he stood. Carefully, he made his way towards the light. He could hear waves and distant gulls. Before he knew it, he was at the lip of the tunnel (which he now realized was a pipe), bathed in daylight. A vast beach stretched out on either side, rocky and barnacled. Little waves fell quietly on the shore like the muffled beat of a drum, beating out the slow pulse of the earth. Gulls drifted in lazy circles far overhead, like tiny airships in the warm blue sky. A bustling pier jutted out in the distance. The pipe extended out of a ten-foot sea wall: there was no choice but to make for the pier.

Matthew silently cursed his lack of shoes as he stepped out onto the sharp stones. He'd traveled only a few yards before he slipped, a sharp piece of slate cutting his heel. Staggering, he limped to a shallow boulder and examined the wound. It was bleeding quite a bit, and loose grains of grit and detritus were already caked around the edges. He clenched his teeth, trying not to cry despite himself. He cursed quietly, "If this is heaven, God is a fool."

"He'd have to be to throw you out of paradise, _mon ange."_ Matthew stiffened at the heavily accented voice, turning his head. A lanky Frenchman was sitting sprawled at the top of the sea wall. He was strikingly handsome, a stubbly layer of contained five o'clock shadow gracing his sculpted chin. Long, sandy-blonde hair in a loose, low ponytail fell in graceful layers around his face. A few rebellious locks had fallen loose and danced playfully like the light in the man's smiling blue eyes. The untucked tails of his blue satin dress shirt flapped like flags over the pockets of his ridiculously tight skinny jeans. His voice was tender when he spoke. "_Parlais vous francois?"_

Matthew shook his head no. "_Desole_. Only a little." It was hard to avoid knowing at least _some _French, though his father had made a fair effort at stripping their lives of all things French after the death of Matthew's mother. Of course, he couldn't say that, nor did he care to.

The stranger shrugged and leapt from the wall onto the beach below, landing deftly, like a cat. His smart, leather shoes handled the rocky beach with ease. "Let's have a look at that cut."

Something about the gentleness in the man's voice put Matthew at ease. The Frenchman knelt on the rocky ground, grasping Matthew's foot delicately, as though it were a piece of fine china. His well-plucked brows knotted with concern. "This looks pretty bad," he said, pulling a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and binding the wound. "I've got a kit in my car. Will you wait? Only a moment, I promise."

"No, it's fine," Matthew said insistently, attempting to stand. He wasn't about to be babied. "I can walk. Sorry for the bother-" Matthew's legs buckled as a bolt of pain shot through his heel. The Frenchman caught him easily, sweeping Matthew up bridal-style into his toned, but powerful arms. "If you could just… call me a cab…" Matthew spoke between gritted teeth. "I'd hate to… inconvenience you."

"Nonsense," the Frenchman spoke decisively. "I'll hear no such thing."

"But-"

"You wouldn't offend my hospitality, would you?"

Matthew paused. He really was in no position to argue: with no phone, no wallet, and no identification of any kind, he was at much at the mercy of nature as he was the mercy of this stranger. Besides, he didn't want to be rude. "Of course not, ah… Monsieur, um…"

"Francis Bonnefoy, though my lovers call me Francis," his savior said with a wink. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Matthew Williams," Matthew replied, polite even through his pain, which was now subsiding. Francis began to carry Matthew along the beach, easily and smoothly navigating the slippery stones. Matthew had a sudden thought.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy? I don't suppose… you know where we are?"

The Frenchman laughed lightly, mounting a flight of steps leading up the sea wall that Matthew had not noticed. "Ah, the sun must have touched you in the head, no?" He stepped up onto the bustling boardwalk. Distant music teased Matthew's ears as a thousand sights and smells filled his senses. "Welcome to Marseille, _mon enfant trouvé de la mer."_


	3. Chapter 3

"There," Francis said, adjusting the bandage one last time. "Good as new."

Matthew stood gingerly on the boardwalk, testing his weight. The wound still stung, but just a little. "_Merci beaucoup_. It hardly hurts at all anymore."

Francis opened the trunk of his classy Citroёn towncar, replacing the First Aid kit snugly among the well-organized knickknacks that tend to collect in the back of any vehicle. He stepped back, smoothly closing the trunk with a click. "So, what now?" he questioned, turning Matthew's way. "I can give you a ride back to your hotel, if you like. It wouldn't be a bother."

Matthew nodded graciously and smiled to hide his apprehension. He wanted to tell the stranger that he didn't have a hotel to go back to: that he was lost, and more than a little confused. But his stoic Canadian decency wired his jaw shut. He could fend for himself, and he really shouldn't ask for any more help. "That's fine, thank you. I can take it from here."

Francis nodded thoughtfully, then reopened his trunk, pulling out a pair of loafers. "I understand. You really ought not to walk around without shoes, though, _cherie_… Here: take these. I think we're nearly the same size."

Matthew knew better than to refuse. He took the shoes in one hand and held out the other for a handshake. "Really, thank you so much, you're too kind-"

Francis leaned in, put a hand on his shoulder and kissed him on both cheeks. The poor Canadian flushed in shock. "Til we meet again, _mon coeur_," Francis said brightly, pushing a small white card into Matthew's hands.

Matthew smiled, baffled, pocketing the card: his mother used to call him that. "Perhaps one day we shall," he replied bemusedly. The Frenchman blew one final kiss and was gone.

Matthew was left alone: no passport, no wallet, and no identification to speak of, a pair of loafers in hand. His cheeks were burning. He lifted a hand gently to his face, his fingertips brushing the spots on his cheeks where his almost-godly looking savior had left his farewell. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the card, examining it: it was a standard business card, with a lazy cursive heading that read 'Francis Bonnefoy, restaurateur' and a daintily printed phone number at the bottom.

Matthew returned the card to his pocket, sighing. What was he supposed to do now? He shut his eyes, removed his glasses and cleaned them studiously, trying to choke back his anxiety. "Head up, Matthew," he said under his breath. "You can handle this."

Replacing his spectacles, he knelt on the sidewalk to pull on the loafers. They fit a little snugly, he decided, but they weren't uncomfortable. He took a moment to assess his surroundings: a cobbled street ran parallel to the boardwalk, with a row of quaint little shops facing the sea. He looked up: the sun was high in the sky, a little off center from high noon. He had plenty of time before nightfall.

He rubbed his temples, trying to think. What would Papa do? He smirked: Papa would go get wasted at the pub. He really ought to confront him about that once he found his way home.

Matthew shook his head. Focus.

Maybe he could contact the Canadian embassy. His passport had to be his first priority. He walked a little ways down the street, spotting a dark, slender woman in uniform sitting outside of a café. "_Excusez moi_," he called, unsure if he was pronouncing the foreign words accurately. "_Parlais vous _English- I mean, _Anglais?_"

The woman glanced up from her drink, looking at him sourly. "_Non. Etes-vous un étranger?_ _Que voulez-vous?"_

Matthew's friendly Canadian smile faded. He'd hardly caught a word of that. This was going to be much harder than he'd thought. "Um… where… _que alors…_ do you know where the Canadian embassy is? What's the word… _le bordel?_" He mimed a moose, realized he looked foolish, and made a maple leaf with his hands.

"_Mon dieu! Que dites-vous!? Stupide américain._" The lovely stranger replied with what seemed to be a growl. Matthew flushed, beyond embarrassed. He hoped he hadn't said anything wrong.

"_Non,_ not American, Canadian. I'm sorry to have bothered you…"

The strange woman rose from her chair, livid. She seemed to bristle. Matthew got the sense that he had most certainly misbehaved somehow. "I'm sorry, I'll be going now." He quickly turned to make his exit.

A pair of small but firm hands yanked on his left wrist, twisting his arm in an altogether unnatural fashion. Matthew shouted in surprise as he received a sharp tap to the backs of his knees, forcing him to the ground. He heard the sound of cuffs clicking shut. "Oh, oh maple… bugger. I'm really awfully sorry. Really, I am, oh, _desole._" The tiny French woman began spouting a torrent of angry words, cutting him off. Matthew felt himself being pulled to his feet. He complied, utterly shocked. Today was just not going well for him.

* * *

**By now you've probably figured out that I won't be telling you what the French words mean. That's right, reader: you only get to know as much as Matthew does. You should be able to infer the English meanings of the shorter phrases based on how they're used: hopefully, you'll pick up a few things. As far as our French-speaking characters go, you'll just have to wait for Francis to explain in the next chapter. See you next week for Chapter 4, ****_mon cherie_****.**


	4. Chapter 4

Francis sat in the wooden cathedral pew, deep in thought. Afternoon sunlight shone through the high stained glass windows, casting rainbow marks on the altar and stone floor. Dust specks drifted through the still air. A few lone worshippers were scattered around the vast hall, waiting for the Sunday service to begin. Francis gazed unseeingly at the stained glass portrait of Mother Mary. It was bittersweet to be back at his childhood church.

Francis wondered blithely what had become of the stranger he'd helped that morning. He couldn't help but feel like the man had looked a little lost as Francis drove away, and he'd found himself glancing back in his rearview mirror long after the man was out of sight. He'd seemed so simple and innocent, and he'd hardly understood a word of _François_. Would he be able to make it back to his hotel alright?

Francis ran a hand through his hair. The strands tugged at the small golden ring on his finger, reminding him of the purpose of his visit. _Of course_, he thought, chastising himself. _Jeanne._ Today was the seventh anniversary of her death, god rest her soul.

Francis touched the seat next to him; he felt almost as if she'd only left to chat with the deacon, or admire one of the statues, or tidy her mascara. He always felt closer to her here, where the high, arching ceiling seemed to scrap the bottom edge of Heaven. Francis sighed. He was not a religious man even when she was alive, but he could never quite manage to refuse when she begged him to attend Mass. She never chose the same church twice- something about wanting to see as many as she could. But for all of Jeanne's persistency, he would always refuse when she asked to visit here. He simply couldn't: the memories were too painful.

It had been 9 years since he'd fled this church- the church of his childhood- after finding himself attracted to one of the ushers. Fearing the consequences of what his father derisively labeled 'his blasphemous homosexual urges', Francis had distanced himself from his friends and family by enlisting in the Navy. He'd been lonely, bitter and frightened… But then he met her.

Francis closed his eyes, the scene lighting up in his memory: he'd been standing on one of Marseille's many piers in uniform, trying to light a damp cigarette. It was foggy out that evening, and all the boats had been forced to dock, leaving him with an unexpected day of freedom in a city he'd been eager to stay away from. He flicked the wheel of his lighter fruitlessly in the damp. He'd just given up when a petit foreign girl approached, holding a flaming lighter like a candle in front of her. He recalled perfectly how her eyes reflected the flame in the semi-dark as she approached. _Oh, Jeanne,_ he thought, recollecting the months of passionate romance that had followed that fateful day. _If only you had not been taken from me so quickly…_

"We gather here today in the name of our lord and savior…"

Francis looked up, snapping out of his thoughts. The mass was beginning.

"Please open your hymnals to hymn 381," the deacon drawled in French. A contingent of pint-sized boys in choral robes marched on in front of the audience as an elderly woman tapped out the beginning bars of a French hymn on an ancient mahogany organ.

After the hymn, the boys filed off and the deacon returned. He opened the dusty bible on the altar, smoothing its ancient pages. "Luke 10, verses 30-35. In reply, Jesus said: a man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers…"

Francis recognized the words immediately. This was the parable of the Good Samaritan.

"A Samaritan, as he traveled, came to where the man was; and when he saw the beaten traveler, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds…"

Francis glanced disinterestedly at his hands. The scriptures always put him to sleep.

"He put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day, he paid the innkeeper and told him to look after the injured man." The deacon said, closing the bible gently. "God calls us to be kind to everyone, even strangers."

Francis nodded. Of course. Those were words he lived by: words that Jeanne had lived by, before she died. His thoughts returned lazily to his memories of Jeanne and the cigarette that wouldn't light. He remembered how the wet paper ignited easily in the flame she offered him. His first words to her were still engraved in his brain: "_Merci, cherie._ You're not from around here, are you?" He smiled, recalling how he'd noticed her distinctive American jeans and t-shirt. "You're very kind, but why help a stranger? You could have walked right past me."

He could almost see her standing in front of him, the memory of her friendly smile burning a hole in his heart. Her words still rang in his ears like an echo from another world. He whispered them to himself: "We are all God's children. You're not a stranger; you're my brother."

"And so," the deacon continued, "We must take up the standard of the Lord and carry out his will, bringing his message to the earth. Let us pray. Our Father in Heaven…"

Francis looked down at his hands, fiddling with the ring absentmindedly. In Catholicism, prayer was usually directed to God, and he no longer had any interest in that sort of thing. He respected religion: truly, he did. But he would never forgive the church for the rejection he'd suffered in his youth.

Of course, he thought to himself, not all prayer was specifically intended for God. Jeanne had often prayed to Mother Mary for guidance, intercession… all sorts of things. There was a vast pantheon of saints in the Catholic church, each with a specialty and purpose. Perhaps, Francis mused, Jeanne might have been a saint herself, had she been born in another time.

The deacon was still praying. Each syllable of the prayer seemed to stretch itself infinitely, as though the religious diatribe would never end. Francis had a sudden, ridiculous thought: what if he prayed to Jeanne? He glanced up again at the glass portrait of Mother Mary. Her eyes smiled back at him serenely, seeming to grant him permission.

Francis removed Jeanne's ring and stared at it. He wavered for a moment, then folded his hands around it, fingers interlocked, and knelt on the prayer bench in front of the pew. He closed his eyes and concentrated hard, projecting his thoughts up beyond the high ceiling to the invisible heaven far above.

_Jeanne? It's me, Francis. I'm sorry I didn't try to reach you sooner… things have been hard without you. I hope you're doing well, cherie. My restaurants are doing splendidly, and so am I, but I still miss you terribly. I hope you know I'm sorry I never got to propose._ Francis opened his hands. The ring glinted in the rainbow light of the stained glass. Francis returned the ring to his pinky finger._ It would have been so lovely on you, Jeanne. _

The deacon's voice faded away into a dull drone. Francis cast his eyes heavenward, searching, suddenly realizing how desperately he longed for Jeanne to hear his words. _Please, Jeanne,_ he pled, his heart aching. _Send me a sign. I'm so lost without you… where do I go? Who do I turn to? What do I do now you're gone?_

Francis' phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He paused for a moment, surprised. He'd probably imagined it.

"…in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen. Go in peace."

Francis' phone buzzed again in his pocket as the Deacon finally finished the closing prayer. Francis shakily retrieved and unlocked the device, fumbling with it in his hurry. "Hello?"

"Mr. Bonnefoy?" Francis was somehow disappointed when a man answered on the other end. He slumped in the pew, chastising himself. What had he expected? A phone call from beyond the grave?

"The very same," he replied.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, this is the Marseille Police. It appears we've found something of yours."

"I don't believe I'm missing anything, but thank you for your-"

"How about a grubby American? He was carrying your card. It seems he insulted one of our female officers. He wasn't carrying any identification or travel papers, so we called you. Do you know this man?"

Francis paused. _A Samaritan, as he traveled, came to where the man was; and when he saw the beaten traveler, he took pity on him._ "Yes, I know him." _God calls us to be kind to everyone, even strangers._ "He's… ah, one of my foreign lovers." _We are all God's children. You're not a stranger; you're my brother._ "I'll be right over."

Francis dashed from the church and into the brilliant sunlight outside. The ring on his finger seemed to shine just a little bit brighter as he ran to his car. _Thank you, Jeanne._


End file.
